Longing To Be Mr. Irrelevant

Another NFL Draft has passed and somewhat surprisingly, another year went by without hearing my name called by Roger Goodell. Or the poor schmuck who has to call out the names of everyone drafted outside of the first round. I'm still waiting, Rog. I guess I'll just show myself out of the green room, again.

I'm kind of getting sick of this bullshit. Here I am, in my athletic prime, and I can't get one NFL team to take a flyer on me. Not one. Okay, I admit that it's probably a little unrealistic to think that I'd be a first rounder. I accept that. You just don't see too many 26 year olds getting that kind of love in the draft. But, there are seven fucking rounds. 252 people drafted! You're telling me that I'm not good enough to be one of those guys? That, I just cannot accept.

Trying to wrap my head around this anomaly year after year leads to a frustration that is difficult to express in words. It's square peg, round hole times infinity. Plus one. There are just no weaknesses in my game. The tale of the tape: 6'4", 195lbs. That is prototypical wide receiver size. You can't teach that.

The size is there, so obviously it must be my speed, right? Wrong. Majorly wrong. I'm a 40-yard dash beastlord. How does 4.65 strike you? Pretty fast right. Fuck that, I'll do you one better. 4.64. That's right, you heard me: 4.64. Personal best circa 1999, but I'm sure that with a couple of weeks of training I could be blowing up stopwatches again. Just don't get caught in my afterburners. You might end up slightly burnt. Wow, that smack talk was epic. That part of my game hasn't deteriorated. I went there, and guess what, if the mood strikes, I might just go back there again real soon.

I've got the size and the speed to cut it in the NFL as a receiver, so logically, not being able to catch the rock is the reason behind my current free agent status. Couldn't be farther from the truth; as I've been saying since the mid-90's, my hands are my livelihood. There's a reason I slather them with moisturizer every day, and it's not because I'm an aspiring hand model. It's because I need to keep my mitts as receptive to pigskin as humanly possible and it's a known fact that pigskins are attracted to moist hands. I'm pretty sure there is a Euclidean formula out there that proves that fact. If my hands were a household object they would be duct tape wrapped in that sticky paper used to roll up cat hair. They are that flipping good.

All the physical attributes are there so it must be that I'm not a big-time player. You know the type, the kind that folds like a piece of 400 year old origami paper when the spotlight is the brightest. Wrong again, mother bitch. I live for that shit. Just check out some of the accomplishments on my kick-face CV: 1st team All-FCIAC x2, 2nd team All-NESCAC, All-Pro ESPN Two Hand Touch league. Those are some gaudy accomplishments earned through hard work, determination and looking my best out on the field. That's right, little known fact flying your way: to play good, you got to look good.

Wonderlic test? Please. I guarantee you I put up a higher score than 95% of the receivers in the league. In my sleep, with one hand tied behind my back. Plus, I can teach a 3 year old the difference between a cover 2 and a cover 3. Just drop your kid off at my hypothetical day care center and by the time you come to pick Little Billy up at the end of the day, he will be able to tell you the proper yardage to reach when breaking off a "Dig" pattern vs a cover 4 defense.

Am I getting through to anyone? Mangini, I'm looking at you. Hook up a fellow alum. I'm not sitting through another draft without going up on stage and holding up my new uniform for the assembled press. I won't do it. I'll retire before I suffer through that embarrassment for a sixth year.

Right now I'm in between agents, so all GM's should email me their offer and I will get back to you in a timely fashion. I'll even take the league minimum. Just trying to stay realistic here.